


In the North

by MyOwnSuperintendent



Series: In the North [1]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, F/M, Past Abortion, Sexual Content, Stillbirth, teenage sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-18
Updated: 2014-05-18
Packaged: 2018-01-25 13:19:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,180
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1650026
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MyOwnSuperintendent/pseuds/MyOwnSuperintendent
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>At the beginning of Robert's Rebellion, the Tully sisters go north to marry Eddard and Benjen Stark.  An unhappy Lysa tries to cope with her new home, her marriage to Benjen, and her relationship with her sister.</p>
            </blockquote>





	In the North

**Author's Note:**

> I don't own A Song of Ice and Fire or anything related to it. Hope you enjoy!

This morning, it is no consolation to know that both of them are unlucky.

Cat has lost Brandon, whom she has known she was to marry for seven years. The man she is to marry this morning is his younger brother Eddard, the new Lord Stark, and from everything they have seen he is less handsome, less charming, less of an easy fit for the role. Cat would not say anything, of course, but she cannot be pleased. And Lysa herself has lost much: her maidenhead, her babe, Petyr… Now she is to be married too, to Benjen Stark. He is just fifteen, barely more than a boy, and a youngest son, and he is not Petyr. She knows as certainly as she knows anything that this is meant to be a punishment, that her father will not let her have even a chance of being happy now. To add to it all, they are not even being married at Riverrun, where they always imagined they would be. There must always be a Stark in Winterfell, as their soon-to-be-husbands’ family is so fond of saying; Eddard and Benjen cannot both leave, and so Cat and Lysa, along with their father, have come to hold the wedding there. Afterwards, the two of them will remain here with Benjen, who has been deemed of an age for marriage but not of an age for battle, while their father and Lord Eddard go off to join the war. Cat knows that her husband may die; Lysa knows that hers will not.

So they are both unlucky today. As Lysa finishes dressing, she thinks how different this is from everything she ever dreamed. She has often imagined her wedding day, but she was always excited in those imaginings, always marrying a man she loved and who loved her. When she was younger, he was just someone she dreamed up, a handsome lord or a bold knight who wore her favor on his arm, but in more recent years he was always Petyr. She wonders if she will ever see him again or if he has been forever taken from her. A small part of her wonders if he would care if they did see each other again, but she pushes it away. No matter what, marrying him would make her far happier than marrying Benjen Stark will. Her chances to be happy are always snatched away, and although she and Cat may both be unlucky today she is always the unluckier of the two. Knowing that Cat shares in her misfortune cannot comfort her.

There is a knock at the door, and she calls, “Come in.” The door opens, and she sees her sister there. Cat is already dressed as well, her blue and red maiden’s cloak wrapped around her shoulders, her hair arranged for the day.

Cat smiles at her, although she looks less assured than usual. “Would you like me to do your hair?” she asks.

She can take even less comfort from Cat’s sharing in her misfortune when Cat is being kind. “Yes,” she says, swallowing hard.

They do not talk as Cat takes a seat beside her and begins to brush her hair. It is a familiar routine to them, something that Cat has often done for her since their mother died, and Cat is adept at it. She braids quickly, and Lysa wishes that she would go slower, that the morning could be spent like this rather than on the wedding itself.

“There, finished,” Cat says, smoothing a last lock back. They look into the mirror together. “You look beautiful,” Cat says, smiling. “He won’t be able to take his eyes off you.”

Lysa does not care if Benjen Stark is able to take his eyes off her or not, but she doesn’t say that. Cat is always strong, and she will show them all that she can be strong as well. “You look beautiful too,” she says, and then they rise together. Cat squeezes her hand quickly, tightly, before they start downstairs.

There is not much to the wedding itself, which takes place in Winterfell’s godswood. Their father gives them both away; their new husbands replace their maiden’s cloaks with Stark cloaks. She has spoken little to Benjen before this, even when he has attempted conversation, and she can barely speak to say her words now. It feels very strange to kiss him. And then she is a married woman.

Lysa sits beside Benjen at the feast. Lord Eddard is on her other side, with Cat next to him. She wishes that she could be next to her sister; while Cat seems to be trying her best to talk to Lord Eddard, Lysa has nothing to say to Benjen and will have nothing to say to him. The feast, too, is not as splendid or joyous as the wedding feast of her dreams. It makes sense, she knows—there is a war on, and the bridegrooms’ sister is a captive—but she cannot help being disappointed. They do have dancing, at least, and she dances first with her own husband and then with her sister’s, managing to find the smallest amount of gratitude for the fact that she has drawn the husband who knows how to smile.

Then it is time for the bedding.   She is swept into the arms of men she does not know, men who tear at her dress and then at her shift and who make comments on her breasts, and she tries her best not to tremble. She sees other men doing the same thing to Cat, women pulling at Benjen’s and Lord Eddard’s clothes; everyone seems to be laughing, enjoying the spectacle. She wonders, in a panic, if they can see on her body that she is not a maid, that she has carried a babe in her womb, and she tries to cover herself with her hands, as if that might somehow hide it. And then she is tossed on the bed in her new chambers, and Benjen is tossed next to her, still wearing his smallclothes, and the door shuts behind them.

“My lady.” He is smiling at her, tentatively, and she is huddled on the bed, still trying to cover as much as she can. “Might I…might I call you Lysa?”

“You may call me what you wish,” she says.

“All right,” he says. “Lysa, then. You can call me Benjen if you like. Or Ben. Benjen or Ben.” He looks at her more like a boy who wants to make friends than anything else, and she stares back at him. She would like to have this over and done, but he does not kiss her or touch her. She is beginning to wonder what he is waiting for when he says, “I…what…what would you like me to do?”

As if she has not been shamed enough. They both know that he knows, but he must throw it in her face, remind her that she has done this before. He must speak to her as though she is some sort of whore, as though she has certain acts that she might prefer, as though she is in the habit of bedding men and it were not something that she had done only twice and all for love.

“That is for you to decide, my lord,” she all but snaps. She turns her head away and bites at her lip.

“Is it all right if I kiss you?” he asks. She jerks her head in a nod and turns back to him and lets him do it.

He stops trying to talk to her after she does not answer him with anything but nods, and she is grateful for that; she feels almost incapable of speaking. His hands fumble when he touches her, and she wonders briefly if he has ever done this. He is only fifteen, after all, but she and Petyr were no older when they first made love. If she closes her eyes she can almost imagine that it is Petyr with her now. She remembers how he told her he loved her, how he touched her hair, how she did not mind when the first time hurt. It does not hurt now, with Benjen, and he does not treat her roughly. There is no joy in it either, though, and she simply lies there and thanks the gods when it is over quickly.

Her face must reflect her unhappiness, for he looks at her afterwards and asks if he hurt her. She shakes her head no, and he says, “I’m glad.” She doesn’t answer him, and after a moment or two he adds, “You’re very pretty, Lysa.” She still doesn’t say anything, and he stretches and sighs and soon falls asleep. She is awake for a while longer, wondering how she will live with this boy, but she eventually sleeps too.

She pretends that she is still sleeping when he leaves her bed in the morning. He says “Lysa?” quietly once or twice, but when she does not answer he leaves the room. She remains there, so thankful to be alone at last, to finally have the chance to cry.  

She cries on and off for a while until she hears a knock at the door. It must be Benjen, she thinks. She gets up, tugs on a robe, and goes to the mirror quickly, checking to make sure that her eyes are not too red, before calling, “Come in.”

It is not Benjen, but Cat. “You didn’t come down to breakfast,” she says. “I wanted to make sure you were all right.” Lysa tries to speak, but she can only swallow hard.

Perhaps because of that, or perhaps because her face still looks like she has been crying, Cat reaches out and touches her hand. “Did it hurt very badly?” she asks.

Of course Cat does not know about Petyr. It has been kept from her, and she would never think of it on her own, any more than she would have thought of giving her own maidenhead to a man who was not her husband. She does not know that Lysa once had something that neither of them will ever have now, nor does she know that Lysa did not go into last night a maid.

“No,” Lysa says. “No, it didn’t. But…but I didn’t like it very much, Cat.” She swallows hard again.

Cat nods. “It was strange,” she says. “Eddard was gentle with me, and it didn’t hurt much, but it did feel very strange.” Then she draws her head up. “But it may get better with time. And anyway, it is our duty.” She embraces Lysa quickly. “You should dress and come downstairs. I know it seems hard, but you can’t just hide yourself away. Things will get better if we try.”  

As irritated as Cat can make her sometimes—as irritated as she is making her now, with her insistence that things could get better that easily—Lysa does not know if she would be able to live shut away here in the North without her, without someone who knows her well. She wishes, though, that Cat did not know her quite so well, did not know that she had every intention of hiding herself away. “I’ll try,” she says.

“Good,” Cat says. “I’ll leave you to dress, then.” And she turns and leaves the room.

 

Two weeks later, Lord Eddard leaves, along with their father. Cat bids her new husband a formal goodbye, but she clings closely to their father at the last. Lysa only says goodbye to him quickly, though, and she is secretly glad that he is leaving. She doubts that he will ever love her again, and she knows that she will never forgive him for what he has done.

Lysa knows that Cat misses Riverrun. When they were traveling to Winterfell, she confessed to Lysa that she wished they could have had the wedding there, at least, and left for Winterfell when Lord Eddard left for the war. It is not long, however, before Lysa thinks that Cat must be glad that they did not follow that plan. Cat misses her moonblood that month, and soon she is spending much of the time vomiting; she is hardly well enough to leave her chambers, let alone to have made a journey from the Riverlands to the North.

Being Cat, she insists on trying to go about the business of the castle as though she is not regularly heaving up her breakfast. “I must be the Lady of Winterfell now,” she protests, her face pale and sweaty. “What will people think of me if I just stay in my bed all day?”

“You can barely stand up,” Lysa points out. She thinks that Cat is making a great deal of unnecessary fuss. Of course people will not think ill of her, not when she is carrying the Lord of Winterfell’s child. If it were Lysa, she would take the chance to rest.

“I can stand up,” Cat says, trying to rise from her bed. “It’s just that I…oh.” She leans back against the pillows again, looking worse than before, and Lysa pushes the basin towards her and retreats.

“I will have the maids bring you some water and oat biscuits,” she says. “Stop trying to get up.”

“Could you have someone bring me the ledgers?” Cat asks.

“What for?”

“So I could at least look over them,” Cat says. “I must do something.”

Cat is taking this much too far. “Why don’t you just rest? The maester says that’s the best thing for you.”

“Have someone bring them to me,” Cat repeats. “I can’t just do nothing, Lysa.” There is a determined look in her eyes that Lysa knows well, and she’s worried that Cat will actually insist on getting up if she doesn’t get what she wants. She has Winterfell’s steward fetch the ledgers, and soon Cat is looking through them, propped up against her pillows, her face a very odd mixture of queasiness and concentration.

Tending to Cat keeps Lysa busy at first. Of course she is not doing the job alone; Winterfell seems full of people who are eager to help. “Is there anything we can do for Lady Catelyn?” ask the maester, the maids, the steward, Lysa’s own husband. Everyone seems to care for her already, and Lysa does not know if it is because of the babe, because she is the Lady of Winterfell, or because she is Cat. Cat seems to prefer Lysa’s help and company to anyone else’s, though—she smiles weakly and tells Lysa how glad she is to have her there—and so Lysa stays by her. At times she feels like little more than her sister’s handmaid, but it is nice to be wanted, at least, and it is nice to be with the only person in all of the North whom she knows and loves.

As soon as Cat is able to keep food down again, though, she throws herself into managing Winterfell; if she seemed intent on proving herself a good Lady of Winterfell before, it is nothing to how she behaves now. She is forever talking to the household officials, looking over the ledgers, inspecting the kitchens, trying to learn all she can about the dull place, and Lysa is forced more and more into Benjen’s company.

She does not mind so much when he comes to her bed. She does not enjoy it, and it is nothing like it was with Petyr, but she knows that perhaps she will get a child out of it, and she likes that thought. Even if she can never get back the lost babe, even if any child she has with Benjen will be the heir to no more than some frozen Northern holdfast, the child would be hers. She would love her child, and her child would love her; she would be someone special, not Hoster Tully’s failure of a second daughter. As she watches Cat, sees the way her sister’s belly swells, the way she glows, the smiles that come on her face, Lysa sometimes thinks that she wants a babe more than anything in the world.

What annoys Lysa is the way Benjen seeks her out during the day. He asks her how she is liking Winterfell (not very much), if she knows her way around yet (no), if she would like him to show her around (no). She sees no point in becoming familiar with Winterfell when they’ll eventually be leaving it, and she has little interest in spending time with Benjen.

She gets no help in her attempts to dodge him, though. When she comes into the solar one morning, Cat glances up at her and says, “I think Benjen was looking for you.”

“He was,” Lysa says, taking a seat. “He asked if I wanted to see the hot springs.”

“And?” Cat asks.

“I told him that I had to see if you needed anything from me.”

“I don’t at the moment,” Cat says. “You should go ahead.”

Lysa doesn’t get up. “Are you certain?”

Cat pushes the ledger she is looking at aside and looks at Lysa with a sigh. “I am certain. And I’m also certain that I know what you’re doing and that it isn’t a good idea.” Lysa is silent at that, and Cat presses on. “I know this is difficult, Lysa. I miss home too.” As if that is what is bothering her. “Benjen is trying to be kind, I think. How will you ever get to feel at home with him if you never talk to anyone but me?” As if she cares about feeling at home with Benjen. “We won’t always be together, you know. When…when the war is over, I’ll stay here with…Eddard, and you and Benjen will have a holdfast. And of course we’ll visit,” she says, leaning in to press Lysa’s hand with her own, “but I think it will be much better for you if Benjen isn’t almost a stranger to you. Let him show you the hot springs.”

So she goes to the hot springs with him. They are not the slightest bit interesting.

He tries to talk to her too, asking about her family, about Riverrun. She keeps her answers as brief as she can. Remembering Riverrun only makes her feel worse now, when even her happy memories make her hurt, when thinking of Petyr only reminds her that she may never see him again, when she knows that her father is not the man that her sister and brother believe him to be. When she doesn’t talk, Benjen talks instead, telling her about his own family and about Winterfell and about how they spend winter days in the North. She lets him talk but does not absorb any of his words, and she wonders when he will take the hint and leave her alone.

The months wear on. Cat’s belly grows larger and larger, and one morning she goes into the birthing bed, and by late that afternoon she has a son. The babe favors Cat, with blue eyes and wisps of red hair on his head. He could be any Tully babe, and when she sees the love with which Cat looks at him, Lysa thinks of her own babe, whether he would have looked like that, how she would have looked at him like that, and she wants to weep. “I shall call him Robb,” Cat says, and Lysa wonders what she would have called her child.

Robb grows steadily over the next few months. While Lysa cannot pretend to find his toothless smiles and the way he grabs for people’s fingers nearly as exciting as Cat does, she also cannot help her jealousy. Her nights with Benjen have not put a babe in her belly yet, and she wants one so very badly. She tries not to begrudge Cat her happiness and only to wish that she could have the same, but at times it feels impossible.

Cat is happier still when ravens come to Winterfell bearing news: Robert Baratheon has killed Rhaegar Targaryen on the Trident, King Aerys is dead, Robert is king, the war is over, Lord Eddard is returning to Winterfell. This last news, in particular, seems to lift a weight from Cat’s shoulders. “Your father is coming home,” she murmurs to Robb, and although she does not say anything more, Lysa can tell that she feared what would happen should Lord Eddard not return.

As his return comes nearer, however, Cat’s relief seems to become mixed with nerves. On the day he is expected, Cat is much less calm than she usually is. As she bundles Robb against the cold, she talks to Lysa in a quick, high voice. “Do you think Eddard will be pleased with Robb?”

“I’m sure he will,” Lysa says. Cat has given him a son, after all, and the babe is healthy, and that is what men wish for. And everyone is always pleased with everything Cat does.

“I hope you are right,” Cat says. “Do you think they will be here soon?” As she has no way of knowing this, Lysa does not respond, and Cat resumes checking that Robb is secure in the blankets she has wrapped around him. And then there is a shout from somewhere in the castle, and Cat picks up Robb, grips Lysa’s hand, and hurries from the room, pulling Lysa with her.

Lord Eddard and his men have been sighted, there is no question about that, and everyone seems to be making their way down to the courtyard. Benjen falls in with them as they head out of the keep; he offers Lysa his arm, and she takes it. They stand beside Cat in the courtyard, and then the gates open and the men ride in.

“Winterfell is yours, Lord Stark!” Benjen says, as Lord Eddard dismounts from his horse and comes towards them. The two grasp hands firmly, and Benjen says, more quietly, “It is good to have you home.”

“It is good to be home,” Lord Eddard says, and then he turns to Cat. “My lady.”

“My lord,” Cat says. “I…I am pleased to see you safe.” She holds out the bundle in her arms. “Here is your son, my lord. I have named him Robb.”

Lord Eddard looks closely at Robb, and while Lysa cannot quite say that he is smiling, the expression on his face is certainly closer to that than anything she has seen from him before. “He is a fine boy,” he says. “And are you well, my lady?”

Cat nods. “I am very well, my lord. And I am glad you are pleased with him.” She is smiling now.

The rest of Lord Eddard’s party is dismounting from their horses as well now, and Lysa’s attention is caught by a woman with a babe in her arms. There is nothing particularly interesting about their appearance, but who they are and why they should be here at all is puzzling.

The yard is getting busier and noisier, but Lysa can tell that Cat notices them too, that she is asking Lord Eddard who they are. And while she cannot hear the words of Lord Eddard’s answer, she can certainly see the expression on Cat’s face in response: the widening eyes, the lips pressed tightly together, the unmistakable hurt and anger.

Lysa is very curious about what is going on, but she does not have to wait long to find out. By late that afternoon, it seems that everyone in the castle knows that Lord Stark has brought his bastard son home.

Lysa does not know what to think; she cannot imagine what Cat must be feeling. She only sees Cat at the feast that evening, though, and although Cat is stiff and quiet and clearly not truly enjoying herself, she is composed. It is like Cat to try to put on a good face for the people of Winterfell, as much of a trial as it must be to her as the feast goes on and on for hours. It ends at last, though, and everyone retires. Lysa slips into her bed and is close to asleep when she hears a knock at the door. She is surprised—Benjen does not usually visit her this late—but she rises and opens the door.

It is Cat. “Were you asleep?” she asks. Lysa shakes her head. “Could I come in?” Lysa nods and steps out of the doorway, and Cat follows her into the room, taking a seat on the bed as Lysa goes to light a candle.

When Lysa comes to sit beside her, Cat is silent for a few moments. Then she says, quietly, “Why do you think he did it?”

“It is what men do,” Lysa says, “when they go to war.”

Cat shakes her head. “I know that. It isn’t the babe, Lysa…well, perhaps a bit…it’s just…why did he bring him here?” Lysa has no answer for that, and Cat presses on. “I gave him a son, and…and I know he hadn’t seen Robb before today, but…but isn’t Robb enough for him? Why does he want to bring someone else’s son to Winterfell?”

“I don’t know,” Lysa says.

“I…who do you think she was?” Cat asks. She is trembling now, and the questions are pouring out of her. “Do you think she was beautiful, Lysa? Do you think he’s in love with her? Does he…does he wish he were still with her instead of here? Does he want to make her son his heir instead of Robb?” There are tears in her eyes. “Why do you think he did it?” she asks again. “Does he wish he had never married me?” And the tears spill down her cheeks, and the words stop and are replaced with sobs.

Lysa reaches out to embrace her, letting Cat bury her face in her shoulder. “Shh…” she says. “Shh…I’m sure he doesn’t wish that…” She thinks of how rarely she has seen Cat weep. She has thought, on her darkest days, that Cat does not weep because she has no reason to, but she knows that there is far more to it than that. Since their mother died, Cat has tried to be strong for all of them, taking care of her and Edmure. Cat has comforted her like this many times, but Lysa cannot remember doing this for Cat. She tries her best, though, rubbing Cat’s back gently. “It’s all right,” she murmurs, as Cat has often done for her. “It’s all right.” She cannot think of anything else to say, as she does not know the answers to any of Cat’s questions. She just holds Cat through her sobs, and when Cat says, sniffling, that she has left Robb with Old Nan and would Lysa mind if she stays with her, Lysa tells her that of course she would not. For all the things that have changed, it is strangely like old times when they fall asleep next to each other, as they did almost every night just after their mother died.

Lysa wakes early in the morning to see that Cat is up and preparing to leave. “Robb will need me,” she says. “Thank you, Lysa. I don’t know what I would have done last night without you.” She bites her lip. “Do you really think it will be all right?” Lysa nods—she may not know the answers to all of Cat’s questions, but she truly cannot imagine Lord Eddard wishing that he had never married Cat, not when everyone so loves her. “I will just have to try very hard to show him that I’m a good wife, I suppose,” Cat says. “Is it…is it awful that I don’t want to be right now?”

“No,” Lysa says. “Not after how he’s treated you.”

Cat sits back down on the bed. “I don’t think I can pretend that I’m happy,” she says. “And perhaps I shouldn’t, anyway. I’ve done nothing wrong, and he shouldn’t have…he shouldn’t have…” She presses her lips together tightly and rises again. “I will do my duty, though. I won’t give him any cause to complain of me.” She goes, then, and Lysa wonders how she can think of her duty when she’s been hurt so. She could never be like Cat.

Benjen is the only one who talks much at breakfast that morning; Lord Eddard is as quiet as he always is, and Cat is stiff and silent. As for Lysa, she cares no more for Benjen’s conversation than she ever has, and she is not going to give a warm welcome to a man who dishonored her sister.

“Are you well?” Benjen asks her as they leave the hall.

“I am well enough,” she says. “You might ask my sister how she fares.”

Benjen looks uncomfortable. “I…Ned has his reasons for what he does,” he says.

“Oh, does he?” Lysa snaps. “Excuse me, my lord.” She jerks her arm away from him and hurries up the stairs. She thinks of the ill-luck that Cat and she have both had—the one married to a man who has behaved shamefully and the other to a man who defends such behavior. Petyr would never have stood for such a thing, she thinks, and she misses him more than ever.

Unhappy with Benjen as she is, the day comes soon enough when she will have only him for company. He is to be lord of a holdfast, and she is to go with him, and though it is less than a week’s journey north of Winterfell it feels as though she is going to the farthest part of the Seven Kingdoms. On their last night at Winterfell, she sits with Cat in her chambers. Cat is nursing Robb, smiling down at him; while things are at best very uneasy between her and Lord Eddard, she still takes great joy in their son. When he has taken his fill of milk, Cat pats his back and then lays him in his cradle with a “Sleep well, my sweetling.” Then she turns to Lysa and says quietly, “I’m going to miss you.”

“I will miss you too,” Lysa says. “So much, Cat…I don’t know what I’m going to do alone with Benjen…” She expects Cat to say something tiresome about how Benjen is a good man, but tonight she does not. She just hugs Lysa tightly, and they promise to write letters. For all the times that Lysa has been angry with Cat, envied Cat, wished that she had all that Cat has, she already knows that she will miss Cat deeply. Everyone she cares for is taken away, it seems.

The two of them say a last goodbye in the morning, while Benjen is doing the same with Lord Eddard, and then Lysa and Benjen mount their horses and go. She does not say anything, and even Benjen is quiet at first. After they have ridden some miles without speaking, however, he turns his head towards her and says, “Don’t be sad, Lysa. We will visit often.” When she is silent, he adds, “I know how close you are to Lady Catelyn. And I will miss Ned. Gods know, he’s all I have left.” He smiles at her. “But we’ll make a family now. I know it’s cold here, and it probably seems dull to you and all that. And this year hasn’t been easy. But I’m sure you will get to like the North.”

Lysa would ask him what in the world there is to like about it, if it were not for the rest of what he has just said. He has just left a sibling too, and he has no other family, and the horrors of what happened to the other Starks are enough to make her feel faintly sick. He said that they could make a family now—perhaps he would like a child as much as she would, and if he is not the man she would choose to be the father, at least the idea of caring for her and their babe seems to please him. Perhaps because she misses Cat, she thinks of the advice that her sister so irritatingly loves to give her, the words about trying to get to know her husband and to see the good in him. And so she gives Benjen a small smile and says, “Perhaps.”   

Their journey is very tedious, but they arrive at the holdfast at last. They are greeted by a steward and a maester and servants, none of whose names Lysa manages to remember, and Benjen has a small supper laid for them. He talks to her while they eat, mostly questions about what will make her most comfortable in their new home. She tries to answer them and not to mind his talking quite so much. There is no one else to talk with here, after all, and she must take what she can get.

They lie together that night, and, as always, she asks the gods to send her a child from it. She continues her prayers through the next months, as they settle into the holdfast, as they begin to spend more time in each other’s company. He seeks her out more than he did even at Winterfell, and she suspects that he is lonely. But then she is rather lonely too, now, and while she cannot imagine loving him and does not think that he loves her either, she would rather be with him than be alone. When he asks her questions, she gives him longer answers now, and she tries to think of questions to ask him in return. She listens to the stories that he tells her of growing up in the North, of racing about in the snow with his brothers and sister. Those will be their children’s pastimes, after all; the babes she bears will not swim in the river as she and her siblings did, will not play in the green of the Riverlands. But her memories of her home are tainted now, and she begins to almost like the idea that her children will have something different. And then six weeks pass without her moonblood, sending a flush of excitement through her, and she tells Benjen that she is with child. “That is wonderful news, Lysa,” he says, and he smiles at her, and she smiles back.

While Lysa is happy about the babe from the start, she only breathes easily when the first few moons have passed—when she is beyond the point where it ended the last time, when her father gave her that horrible tea and she could not stop bleeding. She is joyous then, excited by every change in her own body, examining the swell of her belly and her breasts in the glass, thanking the gods for all that she did not get to see with her first babe. Even her aches and pains seem like blessings. She writes letters to Cat, telling her the news, how excited she is, how she hopes that they can visit after the babe is born. Cat writes back to share in her joy and to tell of her own life at Winterfell; she talks much of Robb, who has recently celebrated his first nameday, and Lysa thinks of how her own babe will be every bit as fine.

And Benjen is good to her as she carries the babe. He sees to her needs, always giving her an arm to lean on or making sure that she has the most comfortable chair. He seems nearly as pleased as she is, and when he lays his hand on her belly one night with a boyish smile, she interlaces her fingers with his and wonders if she might not someday be happy. It has taken long enough, but now they are going to have a babe, and she is sure that they can have many more. That will please them both, she thinks, and if this is not like being married to Petyr—nothing could be like being married to Petyr, for there is no one like him—it is not as awful as it might be. He has never done anything to shame her as Lord Eddard has shamed Cat, after all, and he has put a babe in her belly, which is what she has wanted more than anything. So the months pass on, and the babe grows inside her, and late one afternoon she feels the first pains. “I think the babe is coming,” she tells Benjen; there is a bit of fear as she remembers her own mother, but mostly there is excitement.

 

When Lysa wakes the next morning, her hands go to her belly just as they usually do. Then she remembers, and she buries her face in the pillow as if that might somehow stop her thinking. Her whole body seems to hurt, and it is nothing to the pain in her heart. There is no babe in her belly now. There is no babe anywhere. She does not even know what they have done with her babe.

Someone taps at the door and comes in without waiting for an answer; it is one of her maids, and Lysa would scream at her if she had any energy at all. “My lady,” the girl says timidly. “I brought you breakfast. Maester Bannen says you should eat. And there is a letter from your sister.” She sets a tray down on the table beside Lysa’s bed. “Do you need anything else, my lady?”

“Get out,” Lysa says, and the maid hurriedly leaves. Alone again, she wishes that she could go back to sleep, but it feels impossible. She sits up instead, takes Cat’s letter from the tray, and breaks the seal.

This is the most foolish thing she could have done, Lysa soon realizes. Like all of Cat’s letters, this one is full of news about Robb, about how many words he has and how he runs about the castle. Each word of this worsens Lysa’s pain, and worst of all is the letter’s end. _By the time you get this, your babe may be here, but if not, I wish you all the best for the birth, Lysa. You must write me as soon as you can and tell me all about the babe—whether you have had a boy or girl and who the babe favors and what name you have chosen. I hope that we may visit soon and that Robb may meet his cousin._

Lysa wonders what Cat would think if she were to write back and answer the questions. _My babe was a girl, Cat, and she favored me. And I will never get to name her. And when the maester held her up I did not realize at first why she did not cry. They did not let me hold her, Cat. They have taken two babes away from me, and my babes will never learn words or run like your Robb, and sometimes I could hate you, Cat._ Her tears fall onto Cat’s letter, and she starts to shake.

The door opens again. “I said to go away,” Lysa says. “I said to go away.”

“I…I will go if you wish.” Benjen. “I...I came to see how you were feeling.”

Lysa whirls her head around to face him. “How do you think I am feeling?” she spits out, and then the sobs overtake her completely.

Benjen does not go. He sits beside her on the bed instead and draws her against him while she continues to shake and sob. “Lysa,” he murmurs, rocking her in his arms, just as she would have rocked her daughter. “Lysa, I am so sorry.”

“What did they do with her?” Lysa manages. “Why wouldn’t they let me hold her?” Benjen does not answer, though, just rocks her, and she sobs and sobs and sobs. The pain does not lessen at all, and she does not feel as though it ever will.

For weeks she does not want to leave her bed. She keeps picturing her daughter—the red wisps of hair and the small, still body. She keeps imagining what she would be doing if her daughter had lived, how she would hold her and sing her to sleep and spend hours watching her. She keeps wishing that they had let her hold her just once.

Benjen comes to her chambers regularly. He urges her to eat, which she does not feel like doing, and he holds her when she cries, which is often, but she cannot spare much thought for him. All of her thoughts are on her lost daughter. Even her body aches for her child; her breasts are full and heavy and her belly crossed with lines, and it is all for nothing. Thinking on her daughter leads to thoughts of her other lost babe, and she wonders why the gods have made her so unlucky.

At the worst moments, she even wonders if she will ever bear a living babe or if she is cursed, if there is something wrong inside her, if that tea that made her bleed has killed her womb. She wonders if Benjen thinks the same, for even when she has healed, he does not come to her bed at night. At first she does not mind; she is mourning her daughter, and no other babe could ever take her place. But as the months pass, the idea of never having a child becomes unendurable. She knocks on the door of Benjen’s chambers late one night, and when he bids her come in she goes and sits on his bed, starting in before she loses her nerve. “I can give you a child,” she says. “I know I can. Please…please don’t stay away from me. I promise you I can.”

“I wasn’t staying away from you,” Benjen says, his voice startled. “I…I didn’t want to hurt you, Lysa. Or upset you.   I know you are grieving…It has been hard,” he says. His hand presses hers, and she wonders what he is feeling. It cannot be like what she is feeling, not when she carried their daughter inside her body for nine moons; no one else can know what a mother feels. And yet the babe was his too.

She does not know how to put these thoughts into words, so she simply says, “You won’t hurt me. I want a child, Benjen. Please.”

They lie together that night and many nights afterwards, but she does not get with child. She wonders, more than ever, why she is so horribly wrong.

And the months pass and the season turns to spring, although a northern spring still seems to be a rather snowy affair, and a raven arrives asking them to Winterfell. It has been a long time since she saw Cat—they had put off their proposed visit after the lost babe, as Lysa did not feel well enough to travel or happy enough to see anyone—and she does miss her company, and she can tell that Benjen is excited at the prospect of seeing his brother.   The journey to Winterfell does not seem as long as the journey away did; it has gotten somewhat warmer, at least, and at some point, she realizes, she has grown to rather enjoy Benjen’s talk.

While it has been a while since they have seen each other, Lysa and Cat have always exchanged news by letter. And yet now, as they arrive in Winterfell’s courtyard and Cat and Lord Eddard come forward to greet them, she realizes that there is some news she has not received. She does not think that most people would notice the change, and whether it is her close knowledge of Cat or her own longings that make her aware she cannot say. But the cut of Cat’s gown is just a little bit looser, and she has the same look that she had when she carried Robb (once she got past the sickness), and when she presses Lysa close and says, “I’ve got so much to tell you,” Lysa knows what she will be telling.

“Come with me,” Cat says to her. “I want to show you something.” She smiles at Benjen and Lord Eddard. “You don’t mind if we go off for a bit, do you?”

“Not at all, my lady,” Lord Eddard says, and Cat takes her arm and leads her through the grounds.

They stop before a small building, and Cat waves an arm and says, “Look.”

Lysa looks. “I…is it a sept?” How did such a thing come to be here?

Cat nods, smiling. “Ned had it built for me.”

Well, Lysa is glad that Cat has a place to pray, at least. It is rather surprising that Lord Eddard would do such a thing, she thinks, but perhaps he felt regret for the shame he has brought upon Cat. “That was good of him,” she says. Cat seems to be expecting more of a reaction from her, but Lysa really does not know what else there is to say.

“I’ve so wanted to see you,” Cat says as they continue through the grounds. “I wanted to wait until you got here to tell you my news.” Her smile is full and bright. “I’m with child.”

She knew that Cat was going to say it, and yet it stings bitterly. How can Cat always be so lucky when she is always so unlucky? “I…I…I’m glad for you,” she manages to say, but she is not glad, and she cannot be glad.

When Cat looks at her, her face is gentle, and so is her voice. “Lysa,” she says. “Lysa, I am sorry if it hurts you to speak of this.” Lysa knows that she is trying to be kind, but she cannot stand Cat’s pity. “I am so sorry for your babe, Lysa. But you are still very young. You will have a babe someday.”

“Will I?” Lysa says. “You are young too, Cat, and you already…I haven’t even gotten with child again.”

“But I am sure you will,” Cat says. “Why shouldn’t you, after all?” It is so easy for her to say that, with no suspicion that there might be something wrong inside Lysa.

“I don’t know,” Lysa says. “All I know is that…that you are always lucky and I never am.”

Cat lays a hand on her arm. “Don’t say that,” she says. “I know it cannot be easy for you, Lysa, but—”

“You don’t know,” Lysa says. “You have a child. You don’t know what it’s like to see your babe dead, Cat. Do you think I should feel lucky about that?”

“No,” Cat says. “No, of course I don’t, Lysa. And I am so very sorry. I only meant…you may get with child very soon. You don’t know. And I don’t see what help it is to say that you are never lucky.”

The pity in her voice is even stronger now, and Lysa does not need her advice or her comfort, and Cat should not get to talk to her like this just because she has had one babe and is going to have another, and the only thought in Lysa’s mind is to make her stop. “You needn’t act as though you are so much better than me,” she says. “Perhaps I am lucky in one thing. Benjen may not have gotten me with child again, but at least he hasn’t gotten anyone else with child either!”

Cat seems struck dumb by that. Her face flushes, and she draws in her breath, and for a moment Lysa feels satisfied.

Cat is not silent for long, though, and when she speaks, her voice is stiff and harsh. “There is no need to be cruel,” she says. “I did not get with child to spite you, Lysa, and I did not mean to hurt you. I was trying to help. I know it has been hard. But you…the moment you are unhappy with something, you decide that it cannot ever be fixed. But if you decide that you want to try to make me unhappy too…then I won’t try to help anymore.” She draws herself up. “Ned and Benjen will be wondering where we have got off too. And Robb will be needing me. I think I’d best get back.” She hurries towards the keep without waiting for Lysa, who follows more slowly. Well, she is glad if Cat doesn’t want to help her anymore. She never asked for Cat’s help. And her unhappiness is not something she decides. She does not know precisely who it is that decided that she should be unhappy—partly her father, she thinks, and partly the gods—but she has always hoped that things could be better, and she cannot help feeling sorrow that they are not. And if Cat blames her for that, it is only because Cat has known so little unhappiness herself.

Lysa is not upset when Cat barely speaks to her at dinner that evening, and she goes to bed more glad than anything for what she said, for her own ability to make Cat feel one tiny bit of what she herself feels every day. By the next evening, though, she is beginning to regret her words. Cat is still barely speaking to her, and Benjen is busy with Lord Eddard, and she feels lonely. She knows, too, that it was a cruel thing to say. She remembers the way that Cat cried to her the night that Lord Eddard brought the bastard home, and when she thinks on it, she knows that she should not have said what she did.

Although she still thinks that Cat should not have spoken as she did either, Lysa decides the next morning that she will make peace with her sister, that she will apologize for what she said. “Lady Stark is in the solar, milady,” a maid tells her when she asks, and Lysa walks through the corridors of Winterfell until she reaches that room. The door is just ajar, and Lysa is about to go in when she hears Lord Eddard’s voice from inside.

“I just…I just wanted to see how you were feeling.”

“I am very well, Ned. I have told you—I haven’t felt ill for weeks now.” There is a brief pause, and then Cat adds, “You know better than anyone how carrying this babe makes me feel.” Her voice is a mixture of laughter and shyness, and Lysa wonders what she means.

“Yes.” There is the same shyness in Lord Eddard’s voice. “Yes. I...I cannot complain of that.”

“Nor can I, my lord.” And all of a sudden Lysa realizes what they are speaking of, and she feels herself blush.

Another pause, and then Lord Eddard says, “I suppose I am tiring you by constantly asking how you are feeling. After all, you must be used to this. It is only…well, it is new to me, and…I want to be sure that you have all that you need.”

“Ned, there is no need to explain yourself,” Cat says. “I would never be angry at you for looking after me. Perhaps being with child is not so new to me, but this time is not exactly the same as when I carried Robb. And I am very glad to have you here for it.”

“I am glad to be here,” Lord Eddard says. “And I shall be still gladder to see our babe, Cat.”

“Me too,” says Cat. “I hope I will give you another son.”

“I will be pleased either way,” Ned says, “if the babe is even half as wonderful as Robb.”

“And I am glad of that too,” Cat says, and there is a smile in her voice. Then they are both quiet, and Lysa wonders if she ought to give up and go away. Her curiosity about what they are doing gets the better of her, though, and she peeks around the door.

There is nothing much to see. They are merely standing beside the desk, arms around each other, Cat’s head against Lord Eddard’s shoulder. Yet Lysa feels nearly as strange as if she has witnessed them lying together, and she hurries away from the room quickly, suddenly not wanting to apologize to Cat.

Perhaps she has never realized it until now, but some part of her has begun to count on the idea that in one way she is luckier than Cat. Lysa is married to Benjen, who always makes sure that she is well, who tried to comfort her after the lost babe, who talks to her easily, who has never brought her shame. And Cat is married to Lord Eddard, who—Lysa thought—loves another woman, who brought that woman’s bastard home to Winterfell and dishonored Cat. What she saw in the solar, though, made it obvious to Lysa that Lord Eddard does not love another woman. He loves Cat—just as everyone has always loved Cat.

Cat has everything, then: love and babes and happiness. And Lysa has none of that. It suddenly seems too much to bear, and she hurries into the chamber she has been given, where she can cry without anyone seeing.

She does not even get to do that for very long, though. Benjen appears in the doorway, and he looks startled when he sees her. “What is the matter, Lysa?” he asks.

“Everything,” Lysa says. “Everything is the matter.”

“What do you mean?” There is concern in Benjen’s voice as he takes a seat beside her on the bed. “What is it? Can I do anything?”

“It is Cat,” she chokes out.

“Is Lady Stark unwell?” Benjen asks, and Lysa could almost laugh at that.

“My sister is never unwell,” she says. “She is beautiful and beloved, and she bears healthy babes. She is far from unwell.”

“Then what…?”

“Cat is going to have another babe,” she says. “And I am sure this one will live too. And everyone loves her and prefers to me. She has everything, and I shall never have anything.”

“That is not true,” Benjen says, and she cannot stand hearing these useless attempts at comfort from him too.

“It is true!” she nearly screams. “You don’t know anything of it! Cat has always had everything, and her babes live and mine die, and everyone loves her best, and it has never been fair! You don’t know anything of it!”

“It is not true,” Benjen repeats, laying a hand on her shoulder. She tries to jerk away, but then he speaks again. “For one thing, I do not prefer her to you.”

The words surprise her. She had expected him to offer her some more pointless words about how everything would be all right someday, about how she must try to be content. She cannot recall anyone telling her something like this right out; even Petyr, after he told her he loved her, had whispered Cat’s name. “Everyone else does,” she says, sounding childish even to herself.

Benjen looks back at her seriously, though, and does not seem to think her childish. “I do not know what everyone else thinks, but I am glad that you are my wife.”  

Lysa would like to believe his words, but she does not know whether she can. “Why?” she asks. “Why are you glad to be married to a woman who cannot give you a babe?”

“Why are you so certain that you cannot?” he asks.

“I have only gotten with child once since we married!” she says. “And you know as well as I do what happened. There must be something wrong with me…because of the tea...you know it as well as I do…”

“Know what?” he asks.

She cannot believe he is pretending—she has always thought him honest, at least—and she feels a flash of anger. “Do you think you are sparing my feelings?” she asks. “We both know that I was not a maid when we wed, and you were quick enough to throw it in my face then! We both know about the babe…my first babe… we both know it! Stop acting as if you don’t!”

“But I don’t,” Benjen protests, and he does not look insincere. “I don’t know what you are talking of, Lysa. I knew that you were not a maid, of course, but when did I throw it in your face?”

“The night we wed!” she says. “You asked me what I wanted you to do…when you bedded me…”

“I…I confess I cannot remember what I said,” says Benjen, “but if I did say that, I…I did not mean anything by it. I knew that you were not a maid...but to tell the truth, I had not expected to have any wife…for a great while, anyway…that was more on my mind. I hardly knew what I was saying…I had no thoughts of throwing anything in your face.”

Perhaps he really is telling the truth. He has never thrown it in her face since, after all, and she knows that most men would. Most men would not even have had her, of course. But Benjen was a youngest son, likely with little more choice in the matter than she had herself, and perhaps he was pleased, as he says, to have any wife at so young an age. But the question of whether or not to believe him about this is shocked from her mind when he adds, “And what do you mean, your first babe?”

This she has always thought he knew. She has always been certain, absolutely certain—why would her father have shared one part of her shame and kept the rest to himself? But Benjen is looking at her sincerely. “You…you don’t know?” Benjen shakes his head.  

A part of Lysa wishes that she had not spoken now; it has been a secret for so long, the babe that only she ever mourned, and she does not know what it would feel like to share it. But Benjen is looking at her curiously.

“There was a babe,” she says. “My babe…I was with child…my father gave me tea…I did not know…”

The tears that have mostly stopped return in full force, and while she manages to choke out more words she is not sure whether Benjen completely understands the story. He seems to understand enough, though, and he rocks her, slowly, slowly. He kisses her hair when she hides her face, and he whispers that he is sorry. She remembers how he rocked her when she wept for their babe and thinks how strange it is that he should rock her just the same when she weeps for another’s.

“Do you think I am spoiled?” Lysa whispers, pressing her face against him so that she does not have to see the look on his face if he says yes. But he only kisses her hair again, very gently, and she knows that somehow the answer is not yes. It lifts her heart more than she would have believed, and yet when she thinks about what the tea may have done to her, why she told Benjen this story in the first place, she still feels nearly sick.

“There is something wrong in me, I think,” Lysa says, drawing away from Benjen and trying to find a handkerchief. “From the tea. Perhaps I shall never have a babe. I could not…I could not bear that.”

Even her talkative husband is quiet at that. “I wish I could say something,” he says at last. “But no one can know what may happen. We may yet have a babe someday, Lysa. We have not been married so long, after all. A babe would please me very much too. But if we do not—” His face is sorrowful.

“Then you will not feel so glad that I am your wife,” Lysa says.

“I did not say anything like that,” Benjen says. “Please, Lysa. I’ve been trying to tell you. Of course I hope that we may have a babe. Or several babes. But that is not why I am glad that you are my wife. When I lie with you, I do not only think of getting you with child.”

She is startled yet again. The children that may come of it are always on her mind when they are in their bed together. “You do not?”

“I do not,” Benjen says firmly, and then he kisses her. It is the deeper kind of kiss, the hungrier kind, and she finds herself returning it.

“What do you think of?” she asks when they pull apart. It is a foolish question. She knows, of course, that there is more pleasure in bedding for a man than there is for a woman, and she supposes that he is speaking of that.

“I think of you,” he says. “You are so beautiful, Lysa…I’ve always thought so…I have so much pleasure in touching you.”

“Oh,” she says faintly. And there is something about the way that he is looking at her that makes her kiss him again.

As they kiss, she feels his hands go to the laces of her gown. “Lysa…could we…would you like to…?”

It is just after noon; this is not done, and yet she can tell how much he wants to lie with her. “Yes,” she says, and they kiss again.

He is asking her questions, just as he did on their first night together, when speaking to him felt like the hardest thing in the world. “Does this please you?” he asks, and the difficulty now is in drawing breath enough to respond. This is ridiculous, Lysa thinks. They have lain together many times, he has touched her many times, and there is no reason why it should feel so different now. There is no reason that this time of all times should make her remember, all of a sudden, what it is to want someone’s touch. But it does, but it does, and there is something about his touches, light and almost tentative as they are, that feels so good.

“I…yes,” she says. “Yes, Ben.”

He smiles at that, and at first Lysa thinks that he is merely self-satisfied, but there is a tenderness in his eyes as he strokes his hands over her breasts again. “Good,” he murmurs. “I want to please you, Lysa.” When his hand slips between her legs and makes her squirm, she worries briefly that she is being wanton, but then she firmly pushes the thought away. For whom should she worry about that? For her father, who already thinks her ruined? She does not care if she does show her pleasure. And the way Ben looks at her shows that he certainly does not mind.

When he slips inside her, she does think of whether this will bring a babe—this first time that she has lain with him and felt desire—but it is not her only thought. She cannot concentrate on any one thought with the way Ben is kissing her, with the way he runs his hands over her, with his groan of, “You are beautiful, Lysa…my Lysa…” How sweet it is to hear her own name like that.   She feels a pleasure, something between her thighs, and she moans his name in return, and she wants.

When he has finished, he remains beside her, nuzzling at her hair, kissing her face where the tears from before have dried. “I suppose they will want us for lunch,” he says after a bit, smiling at her. They both rise and dress then, and when they go to the great hall for lunch Lysa wonders if Cat and Lord Eddard can guess what they have been doing. She supposes that she should be worried about it, but she almost likes the idea.

When Ben knocks at the door of her chamber that night, she rises at once to let him in.

Lysa is almost surprised over the next weeks at how much she comes to enjoy having Ben in her bed. And not always in her bed, either. She remembers how dull she thought the hot springs when he showed them to her before, in the first year that they were married; now, as he slips off his breeches and comes to join her in one of the pools, his hand cupping her breast, she cannot find them the slightest bit dull. And if other thoughts intrude—thoughts of Petyr, or of whether a babe will come of this, or of the undeniable truth that Cat and Lord Eddard did not ask them here to have them spend half their time slipping off together—it always seem to be at those moments that Ben does something with his fingers to make her gasp and reach for him and forget everything else in her pleasure.

“Where have you been all afternoon?” Cat asks her when they come back to the keep close to evening. They are on good terms again, the two of them. Lysa went to Cat the day after her first attempt and asked her forgiveness, saying that she knew that she should not have said what she did. Cat was silent for a moment. “You should not have,” she said. “But…but I know you were hurting, Lysa. You are my sister. I forgive you.” While she still seemed a bit hurt, she turned the conversation away from the subject, and after another day or two the wall between them felt gone completely. Being friends with Cat again is another thing that makes Lysa feel lighter now.

She would half like to answer Cat’s question truthfully, but she simply says, “Walking.”

There is a feast on their last night in Winterfell. It is meant to be a goodbye to them, Lysa knows, and she and Ben enjoy the food, talk with Cat and Lord Eddard, take part in the dancing. Under the guise of a turn on the dance floor, Ben moves her towards the door. “Let’s go upstairs.”

“It is our feast,” she protests, even as much of her wants to go with him.

“There are so many people,” he says. “We won’t be missed. And it’s late.” His mouth is up against her ear. “Do you know how much I want to touch you?”

Someone has to maintain dignity here. “You’re touching me now,” Lysa says, and he certainly is, at that.

“I want to touch you without your clothes on,” Ben says. “It’s all I’ve been thinking about.” He blushes faintly, and she can feel her own face flushing as she looks back at him. “Please, Lysa,” he whispers, squeezing her bottom through her skirts, and she tells herself that if he is going to touch her anyway they might as well go to her chamber where they won’t be a spectacle for everyone to look at.

“All right,” she says, and, the decision made, they practically run out of the hall.

That night, he puts his mouth between her legs. Lysa has no idea what to think at first—she has never known anything like this—but that is while she can still think at all. It is before the way Ben’s tongue moves over her most sensitive spot leaves her unable to do anything but shiver and moan out his name and beg him to keep on, before the pleasure that she has felt when he has touched her these past weeks mounts and mounts until she feels almost unbearably tense and then breaks abruptly in a way that feels so good and so strange. “I...I…oh,” she manages to say, not knowing the words for what she has just felt, and Ben pulls her close and kisses her before moving inside her.

They lie together twice that night, and when he holds her afterwards, his kiss is very tender. “My Lysa,” he says. “My sweet, lovely Lysa.” For half a second, she thinks that he is going to say something else—something more—but instead he kisses her again and nestles close to her side.

“Ben,” she says. “Ben, I…that felt so good, Ben.” He smiles at that, and she smiles back at him, and they kiss again, slowly, lazily, and lie there with their bodies intertwined.

Lysa lies awake after Ben falls asleep, thinking about what it is that she feels for him. She cannot call it love, she thinks, for it is nothing like what she felt for Petyr back in Riverrun: that constant want and hope that he would love her in return, that he would stop looking at Cat that way. She tries to imagine how she would feel if she saw Ben looking at Cat that way. There is a quick pain, followed by a certainty that it would not happen; she believes that he meant what he said when he told her that he did not prefer Cat to her. That is part of what she likes about Ben—this growing certainty that he will be good to her, that he wants to please her with his touch and comfort her when she is sad. And if he cannot comfort away all her sadness—if there is still that deep sorrow for her lost babes and that deep desire for a living babe to love—at least he tries. He does not look at her with disgust or anger or distraction but with affection.   She may not love him, but she does like him. They could someday have a life something like she’s dreamed, she thinks, especially if a babe does come.

Ben rises before she does; he has promised to spend the morning with Lord Eddard before they leave that afternoon. Lysa lies in bed and watches him dress.

She smiles when he teases her about being a lie-abed. “I had a very tiring night, my lord.”

“Oh, did you?” He kisses her with a smile. “Have a good morning.”

“You too.”

Lysa lies in bed a while longer, until she hears a knock at the door. She gets up and wraps herself in her dressing gown before calling, “Come in.”

It is Cat. “I came to look after you,” she says, a playful smile on her face. “You slipped away from the feast last night. I hope you were not feeling ill?”

Lysa smiles back, even as she feels herself blush. “No, I was not feeling ill.”

“I didn’t think so,” Cat says, taking a seat beside her on the bed, her smile growing broader.

There is no point in pretending when Cat so obviously knows the truth, and so Lysa says, “Do you think everyone knew why?”

“I think most people were not paying very much attention at that point,” Cat says, “and, anyway, there is no shame in it, not with your husband.”

She wants to confide in Cat. “I…Cat…last night Ben, he…he did something…it was very strange…” Cat starts to look a bit concerned, and she hastens to add, “But it was good! I mean, I…I liked it…but it made me feel so strange…he…he put his mouth on…on my… between my…”

“Oh!” Cat says. “Oh! I know what you are speaking of.” She smiles. “Ned has done that to me too. It is…very pleasant.”

“Yes,” Lysa agrees. They look at each other, and, as one, they both start giggling. Once they have started, it seems impossible to stop; their laughter mounts, and soon they are both lying back on the bed, nearly breathless with it. Whenever Lysa feels close to stopping, Cat’s giggles start her off again, and it feels almost like they are girls back in Riverrun.

“Oh,” Cat gasps. “Oh…I can barely breathe…stop making me laugh…” Lysa makes a face at her, and she begins laughing again.

When they finally stop laughing after what feels like quite a long time, Cat wipes the tears from her eyes. Then she smiles and squeezes Lysa’s hand. “I am glad we are both happy,” she says.

Lysa’s first instinct is to feel annoyed— it is so like Cat to assume that just because she is happy everyone else must be happy too. But when she stops to think on the words, she somehow lets the annoyance go, and she smiles at Cat and squeezes her hand back.


End file.
